The Betrothed. Alessandro Manzoni

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СКАЧАТЬ now! to reproach me with my kindness! I have hastened every thing to serve you; but—but there has occurred—well, well, I know—”

      “And what do you wish that I should do?”

      “Be patient for a few days. My dear child, a few days are not eternity; be patient.”

      “For how long a time then?”

      “We are coming to a good conclusion,” thought Don Abbondio. “Come,” said he, gently, “in fifteen days I will endeavour—”

      “Fifteen days! Oh! this is something new. To tell me now, on the very day you yourself appointed for my marriage, that I must wait fifteen days! Fifteen,” resumed he, with a low and angry voice.

      Don Abbondio interrupted him, earnestly seizing his hand, and with an imploring tone beseeching him to be quiet. “Come, come, don’t be angry; for the love of Heaven! I’ll see, I’ll see if in a week—”

      “And what shall I say to Lucy?” said Renzo, softening.

      “That it has been a mistake of mine.”

      “And to the world?”

      “Say also it is my fault; that through too great haste I have made some great blunder: throw all the blame on me. Can I do more than this? Come in a week.”

      “And then there will be no further difficulties?”

      “When I say a thing—”

      “Well, well, I will be quiet for a week; but be assured, I will be put off with no further excuses:—for the present, I take my leave.” So saying, he departed, making a bow to Don Abbondio less profound than usual, and giving him a look more expressive than respectful.

      With a heavy heart he approached the house of his betrothed, his mind dwelling on the strange conversation which had just taken place. The cold and embarrassed reception of Don Abbondio, his constrained and impatient air, his mysterious hints, all combined to convince him there was still something he had not been willing to communicate. He stopped for a moment, debating with himself whether he should not return and compel him to be more frank; raising his eyes, however, he beheld Perpetua entering a little garden a few steps distant from the house. He called to her, quickened his pace, and detaining her at the gate, endeavoured to enter into discourse with her.

      “Good day, Perpetua; I expected to have received your congratulations to-day.”

      “But it must be as God pleases, my poor Renzo.”

      “I want to ask a favour of you: the Signor Curate has offered reasons I cannot comprehend; will you explain to me the true cause why he is unable or unwilling to marry us to-day?”

      “Oh! you think then that I know the secrets of my master.”

      “I was right in supposing there was a mystery,” thought Renzo. “Come, come, Perpetua,” continued he, “we are friends; tell me what you know,—help a poor young man.”

      “It is a bad thing to be born poor, my dear Renzo.”

      “That is true,” replied he, still more confirmed in his suspicions—“that is true; but it is not becoming in the clergy to behave unjustly to the poor.”

      “Hear me, Renzo; I can tell you nothing, because—I know nothing. But I can assure you my master would not wrong you or any one; and he is not to blame.”

      “Who then is to blame?” asked Renzo, carelessly, but listening intently for a reply.

      “I have told you already I know nothing. But I may be allowed to speak in defence of my master; poor man! if he has erred, it has been through too great kindness. There are in this world men who are overpowerful, knavish, and who fear not God.”

      “Overpowerful! knavish!” thought Renzo; “these cannot be his superiors.”—“Come,” said he, with difficulty concealing his increasing agitation, “come, tell me who it is.”

      “Ah! you would persuade me to speak, and I must not, because—I know nothing. I will keep silence as faithfully as if I had promised to do so. You might put me to the torture, and you could not draw any thing from me. Adieu! it is lost time for both of us.”

      Thus saying, she re-entered the garden hastily, and shut the gate. Renzo turned very softly, lest at the noise of his footsteps she might discern the road he took: when fairly beyond her hearing, he quickened his steps, and in a moment was at the door of Don Abbondio’s house; he entered, rushed towards the little parlour where he had left him, and finding him still there, approached him with a bold and furious manner.

      “Eh! eh! what has happened now?” said Don Abbondio.

      “Who is this powerful personage?” said Renzo, with the air of one resolved to obtain an explicit answer; “who is he that forbids me to marry Lucy?”

      “What! what! what!” stammered Don Abbondio, turning pale with surprise. He arose from his chair, and made an effort to reach the door. But Renzo, who expected this movement, was upon his guard; and locking the door, he put the key in his pocket.

      “Ah! will you speak now, Signor Curate? Every one knows the affair but myself; and, by heavens! I’ll know it too. Who is it, I say?”

      “Renzo, Renzo, for the love of charity, take care what you do; think of your soul.”

      “I must know it at once—this moment.” So saying, he placed his hand on his dagger, but perhaps without intending it.

      “Mercy!” exclaimed Don Abbondio, in a stifled voice.

      “I must know it.”

      “Who has told you?”

      “Come, no more excuses. Speak plainly and quickly.”

      “Do you mean to kill me?”

      “I mean to know that which I have a right to know.”

      “But if I speak, I die. Must I not preserve my life?”

      “Speak, then.”

      The manner of Renzo was so threatening and decided, that Don Abbondio felt there was no possibility of disobeying him. “Promise me—swear,” said he, “never to tell—”

      “Tell me, tell me quickly his name, or—”

      At this new adjuration, the poor curate, with the trembling look of a man who feels the instrument of the dentist in his mouth, feebly articulated, “Don—”

      “Don?” replied Renzo, inclining his ear towards him, eager to hear the rest. “Don?”

      “Don Roderick!” muttered he hastily, trembling at the sound that escaped his lips.

      “Ah! dog!” shouted Renzo; “and how has he done it? what has he said to you to—”

      “What? what?” said Don Abbondio, in an almost contemptuous tone, already gaining confidence by the sacrifice he had made. “I wish you were like myself, you would then meddle with nothing, СКАЧАТЬ